


Another round

by woodsong_1978 (Vae)



Category: Firefly
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-08
Updated: 2007-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/woodsong_1978
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another job goes south, and Mal works on getting drunk</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another round

They'd fought. Again. Wasn't precisely anything new, either the fighting or the reasons behind it. Simon's natural caution warring with his frustration at the limitations of a fugitive's life, his deep need to be doing something active rather than waiting to deal with the fallout. Mal's knowledge of the risk to his entire crew in sheltering Simon conflicting with the undoubted benefits of keeping their own medic. Simon's worry for Mal every time he went out into danger. Mal's protectiveness, wanting to keep Simon away from that very danger. Simon's lack of faith in Mal's ability to keep himself safe. Mal's constant stream of knife cuts and bullet wounds, laser burns and wrenched muscles. And, eventually, always, the love that kept them bound in the endless exchange of sharp words, barbs aimed at known weaknesses until the join of mouths expressed a truer communication, free of the uncertainties of language, direct and open and desperate and necessary. Bringing them back around every time for one more shot.

One more shot.

Mal's lips twitched in a mirthless smile as he regarded the glass in his hand, refilled enough times already that the alcohol slopped over his unsteady fingers when he lifted it to drink. Always one more shot. That's what he'd promised Zoë when she'd tracked him down, just one more and he'd head back. The look in her eyes had told him clearly that she believed it even less than he believed himself.

Could be he should have taken one more shot at convincing Simon to stay behind. His lover was far from a natural dissembler, but he'd held his part true enough for deception's purposes until the events had turned to gunfire. Jayne had picked off his share, Zoë had taken hers, but Mal had divided his attention between the job and Simon's safety. Trouble with that was that Swift also had one last shot, and he'd planted that one firmly into Simon.

The glass stared back at him, obstinately empty. Irony of the situation was that it probably wouldn't have deterred Simon one bit, being as it had been Mal's intervention that left him open to that bullet. Never would be able to clear his mind of Simon's face at that instant. Gorramn near stopped Mal's own heart and breath. Stopped everything else. Time, even, whole of reality freezing to a sickening stillness when Simon's eyes opened wide, dark with shock and pain, perfect lips parting for a harsh indrawn breath, one hand outstretched towards Mal, fingers splayed, the other clutched tight over the wound, trapping the bullet inside his body.

The barkeep returned, bottle poised in silent enquiry. Nodding, Mal pushed his glass forward, One more shot. Then he'd head back. Back to Serenity, back to responsibility, back to finding where to head next. 

"Mal." The voice was quiet but insistent.

He paused, drink halfway to his mouth. "Got nothing to say to you right now."

"Is that so?" Amusement laced through the annoyed tone.

"Reckon it is so." Completing his intention, he tossed back the shot and set the glass back on the bar, signaling for another refill. "Nothing I want to be hearing, neither."

Slender fingers stole his glass away. "Then this isn't your lucky day."

Mal set his lips on the automatic response that he knew damn well it wasn't his lucky day, on account of how not too many folk generally got shot at on his lucky days, of which there were fewer than he'd prefer there to be recently. Instead, he pushed his stool back from the bar and stood up, turning his head towards the elusive hint of air stealing in through the open door. Not fresh air, not down near the docks, but air all the same. Something he felt a pressing need for more of. "Don't plan to apologize, that's what you're wanting."

"No, I don't imagine that you do."

The doorway was in sight, close enough to catch the stench of trash fouling the gutters outside, before the voice stopped Mal again. Closer this time. Gorramn thing was following him.

"Neither do I."

That was enough. Enough for Mal to turn on his heel, fist his hand in that crisp, clean linen and bring their faces close together, wide blue eyes almost too near to focus on, shallow breath warm on his cheek. "Simon - "

"Mal," Simon returned, frustratingly composed for a man dragged up far enough to balance on his toes.

Mal glared in silence for several heartbeats, then loosed his hold on Simon and strode out into the night. Not fast enough, apparently, since he'd hardly turned the corner of the street before he felt a familiar hand on his arm. A hand he couldn't shake off. 'Course, he could have if he'd wanted to; was just a kindness not to, right then. After all, Simon wasn't blessed with a natural sense of direction, save for his way around the human body - and that was a thought Mal shouldn't be having at that point, sense memory reminding him just how well Simon did know his way around Mal's body in particular.

Turning his arm in Simon's hold, Mal returned the grip, fingers curling around Simon's bicep, eyes meeting that determined gaze. There'd come a day, sometime, when that determination would falter and fade, a day Simon wouldn't be following him. Might even come a day he wouldn't be following Simon, but that day wouldn't be yet.

For the first time since leaving Serenity that afternoon, he took a good look at Simon. Proper look, head to toe and back again, lingering in certain favored areas, returning to Simon's face. Went beyond handsome, that face, beyond and damn close to pretty. Even when the lips were set that tight, when the cheekbones were made more prominent by the pinch of pain, when the smooth skin was darkened by a day and a half's worth beard growth and near on gray rather than pale above that. 

Dressings and a bandage bulked out one shoulder under the white shirt, and Simon's right arm was suspended awkwardly across his chest in a makeshift sling. Sensible thing to do, keep that arm immobilized while the shoulder healed. Wasn't a measure Mal had any patience with himself, and he couldn't recall Jayne ever staying in such a thing longer than an hour after leaving the infirmary. He reached out, unable to resist the urge to touch, fingers stroking as light as stardust over the folds of the sling, tracing the fabric up to Simon's neck. "Couple inches further..."

"And it would have missed me entirely," Simon interrupted, obviously unwilling to indulge Mal's morbid fears in the other direction.

A reluctant smile quirked Mal's lips, and he forced his shoulders down, fuzz of the shots fighting to overwhelm him in the cool night air. He shook his head. "Too gorramn close."

Simon shrugged awkwardly, one-shouldered, Mal's hand sliding down with the movement. "You don't get rid of me that easily."

"Wasn't trying to," Mal confessed, smile fading. Not the best of subjects for joking around with, but then, Simon never did have the knack of saying the right thing. Still, he had a solution for that one.

No more words. 

One more kiss.

One more shot.

**Author's Note:**

> The characters aren't mine, neither is the 'verse. Just playing here.  
> Xiexie to lvs2read for the beta check.


End file.
